The Art of Unpredictablity
by RadiantSeraphina
Summary: Medical student John Watson has a lot to deal with: his grief over his father's suicide, his alcoholic sister, his unstable mother, and his studies. Really, he just wants some area of his life to be stress-free and make some sense. Then, in the middle of the night, he finds a girl wrapped in a towel standing outside his room. So much for things ever making sense. fem!Sherlock


Disclaimer: I neither own _Sherlock _nor the character and stories of Sherlock Holmes.

The following fanfiction includes a vaguely described suicide scene, the occasional swear, a seriously creepy boyfriend, mentions of abusive relationships, some crime-related violence and drug use, allusions to sex (though no actual sex in any way, shape, or form), unintentional Americanisms and fem!Sherlock. In other words, I place the warning to be on the safe side of the rating scale.

* * *

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

_God, what _is _that?_

With a sigh, I turn in my bed and try to bury myself deeper into the cocoon of blankets. It's probably some drunk who's found the wrong room. A few minutes, and the noise will stop.

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

_God!_

It sounds like someone is trying to beat down the door out there. I close my eyes more tightly and try to ignore the noise. After all, I was sleeping. I'm still sleepy. My eyelids are heavy when they're open. Back to sleep. Whoever it is will go away.

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

This is ridiculous. The cold greets me as I untangle myself from my bed. I sit upright on the bed and stare at the door. Right. Well. If that noise doesn't stop right now, I'll go see who it is.

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

Well. The carpet is welcoming and warm compared to the cold air. I stumble in the dark to the door. My hand fumbles for the light switch, and when I finally find it, I turn on the lights. I take a few minutes to blink and let my eyes adjust, an action found apparently disagreeable by the person at the door, who keeps knocking on it with irritating persistence.

I unlock the door and open it quickly, prepared to look as angry and threatening as possible—_oh my God. _There's a girl. Standing outside my room. Wearing a bath towel. I gawk at her and force myself to stare at her face—to stare at her cold blue eyes and the dark, wet hair clinging to her pale skin. I must, must, must _not _stare at her partially-exposed breasts or the towel. "I…um, I think you have the wrong room," I say.

"No, I don't."

"Oh."

"It's very cold out here," the woman says. "You ought to invite me in."

_What_? It's with some amazement that I notice that, yes, it is quite cold. "Oh, um…I'm sorry, but who…?"

"Sherlock Holmes. You aren't going to leave a poor girl to freeze to death, are you? I do believe that would be most unchivalric of you."

Well, yes, I suppose it would be. I consider her a moment longer. She doesn't look like she's high or intoxicated. This is odd. Really, really odd, actually. But I really can't let her stand outside in only a towel. I stand aside and motion her in. She walks past me without a word, and I close the door. I turn around, and she settles herself in one of the chairs by the telly. "I take it Mike is out?"

Oh. So she knows Mike? He's never mentioned her. "He is. He'll be back in the morning. He's staying with his girlfriend."

"Good for him," the girl mutters.

"Right. Look; I don't mean to be rude, but you're…" I trail off as she looks at me, her expression annoyed. "Well, you're…you know…not wearing any pants. Or anything else."

"Which would be the reason your eyes keep darting to the wall while we're engaging in a conversation, wouldn't it be, John?"

"You know me?" I ask.

"No."

"Then, how…?"

She reaches around her chair and waves a piece of paper at me. It takes me a moment to realize what it is. It's the note Mike left saying he'd be gone all night. "_John," _the girl says. "Just letting you know that…"

"I'll be back in the morning."

"Yes."

I haven't the faintest idea how she noticed such a thing. "So I'll be staying for a while," she says, crossing her legs and tilting her head towards me.

"What? But…but we don't even know each other! I mean, I've never even heard Mike mention you, and you're wearing a towel!"

The woman straightens and leans forward. I quickly avert my eyes to the floor. "John," she says. "Poor John Watson. Your father just recently died while overseas, and you're trying to cope with the grief. You're much too proud to accept help, though it's quite obvious that you're in sore need of it."

I'm looking at her _now_. She's not entirely right. My father died here, but he was overseas, and I _am _coping with the grief. Sherlock returns my gaze coolly and continues, "You have an older sister named Harry—short for something else, I'm hoping, and she's not attending the university with you. She worries about you, though, and maybe you don't want to admit it, but you think about her far more than you want. Then, there's you. You recently suffered an accident—I'd say a car accident, actually, which resulted in a broken leg, injured shoulder, and several lacerations. Poor John. It really hasn't been the best month for you, has it? You're depressed, so you're trying to bury yourself in your studies, but it isn't working. It isn't working because when you sleep, you see your father dying. That's enough to know about you, isn't it?"

I think I'm going to faint. Instead, I swallow around the lump in my throat and lower myself into the chair opposite the strange woman. "Holmes—"

"Sherlock, please."

"Sherlock, then, how did you…how did you know that?"

"I deduced it," she says. "Observation."

"You observed all that?"

She nods, and a flicker of uncertainty crosses her face. "That's…that's like magic," I reply.

"Magic? It's the very _opposite_!"

"I meant it's amazing. I just…that's incredible. How did you know? What did you see?"

It's subtle, but I swear that for barely a second, she looks uncomfortable. "It doesn't matter ," Sherlock replies.

But it does! How did she know? Sherlock clears her throat. "Am I correct in assuming that I can stay?" she asks.

"Yes, but…well, maybe. Why are you…?" I trail off and gesture towards her.

"Nude?" she asks. "Well, I _was _showering, but then, my mate Molly came home, entirely drunk, with her _boyfriend. _Molly and I share a room, and I wasn't going to walk around them to get my clothes. So I left."

"But…shouldn't you have gotten clothes?" I ask.

I feel stupid asking, but I'm not following Sherlock's logic here at all. "They were snogging in my room," Sherlock says.

Well, maybe so, but surely, she could walk around them and get clothes, right? Sherlock sighs heavily. "Molly was drunk; Jim was not. I can't tolerate that pig, so I left."

"But you're not wearing any clothes!"

"I wasn't walking past him without them," Sherlock replies.

"But you'd walk outside without them?"

Sherlock scowls. "There aren't _that _many people outside."

Well, she has a point. It's just after midnight, and it's very cold. Most people are already in bed. "Fair point," I concede, "But your mate's boyfriend…"

"Jim," Sherlock supplies.

"Right. Jim. Why do you feel uncomfortable around him?" I ask. "You don't seem that uncomfortable around me."

"You don't leer at me like he does," Sherlock says. "He never talks to me, but when he _looks _at me, it's like he's saying he owns me. I hate that. Nobody _owns me_. There's something wrong with him."

He _does _sound like a creep, but it's hard to know just how bad this Jim is when I'm hearing about him from a girl clad in only a towel. It doesn't really matter, though. If Sherlock thinks he's frightening enough to leave her hall without clothing over walking past him in a towel, then, she shouldn't go back to her room tonight. I suppose she'll have to stay. "Do you want to borrow some clothes?" I ask.

"Yes," she says.

I stand, and she stands nearly a moment later. Sherlock trails behind me as we enter my room. She immediately perches on the edge of my bed and begins rummaging through a half-full box—evidence that confirms that _yes, _I've lived in this room for two months and not yet unpacked. Now. I surely have a really long shirt, somewhere. It has to be really long, though, because there is no way that Sherlock Holmes can wear any of my trousers without them falling off her hips.

I find a blue, cotton shirt and free it from one of the boxes. I glance over my shoulder at Sherlock, who's settled on flipping through a few pages of my old copy of _The Hobbit. _"Your father read to you as a child?" she asks.

"Yes, he did. Did yours?"

"Never."

She places the book carefully back in the box and eyes me expectantly. "Is that for me?" she asks.

"Yes."

I hold it out for her, and she grabs it. I look away as Sherlock pulls the shirt over her head. "Thank you," Sherlock says, and it sounds like she's testing the phrase. Like she's not entirely sure she's _supposed _to thank me.

"Sure."

I deem it safe and look back at her. The shirt is about mid-thigh on Sherlock, and thankfully, if she's careful when she sits, she won't reveal anything she's not supposed to. Now that Sherlock's clothed, it's easier to think more clearly and to be a better host to this odd girl, who's certainly staying over for the night. "You can sleep in Mike's bed, if you like," I say.

"Right. I think I will."

The girl slides off my bed, crosses the room in a few, bold strides, and pauses by the doorframe. Sherlock looks at me over her shoulder and winks. "Good night, John Watson!"

"Good night, Sherlock."

She walks through the door and down to Mike's room, humming what I think might be the _Moonlight Sonata. _I watch after her long after she's gone from sight and then look hesitantly at my own bed. My eyelids want so badly to close, and my muscles ache. I suddenly feel about eighty as a yawn forces itself past my mouth. I do need sleep. Very badly. I know the nightmares will be waiting, though. They always are.

They're waiting, but I have to meet them. Because I am so, _so tired. _

* * *

_My father holds the gun at his temple and stares at me. I hear my heart pounding in my head. I'm always standing at the door, about to witness something horrible. I know what's coming, but I can't force myself away. "Please, don't," I beg. "Please, please, don't do this."_

_He cries. I've never seen him cry before, but he cries now. I take a trembling step forward, and the world seems to slow around me. It slows, and it quickens. It's horrible and horrifying. I want this moment to end, but I don't want it to end. Either way, the gun is horribly loud, and I _scream. _It's useless. My screams are useless, but if I scream loudly enough, I'll wake myself up, and this won't happen. It won't _be _happening._

_There's so much blood. So much. It's everywhere, and I'm going to be sick. Or faint. Possibly both. This cannot be happening to me. My father can't be lying dead on the floor, and this is all happening to someone else. Some other John Watson. I kneel, or maybe I collapse, and the blood spreads so quickly into the carpet. I hear screams—Harry coming down the hall. Running because of the noise. Mum is behind her, and she'll faint. She faints. Tears prick my eyes, and I can't stop crying. My dad is gone, and he's never coming back._

_Then, Harry leans over my shoulder and whispers, "John. John Watson. Wake-up."_

* * *

I blink slowly into the darkness and stare at the pale face looming above me. A hand nudges my shoulder. "Move over."

What? Why? I'm still confused, trying to connect my father's death with the girl—her name, Sher…something. It feels so real. I don't move. I lie in bed and stare at her. It feels like he died. Again. The woman sighs and nudges me over. She pulls the blankets over us and whispers into my ear. "It's fine, John. Go back to sleep."

It's not fine. It never will be fine. "Why are you here?" I whisper, not facing her.

"Isn't that what you do when someone has a bad dream?" Sherlock asks. "I used to climb into bed with my brother when I had nightmares. Didn't you and Harry do that?"

"With our parents," I say. "My mum and dad."

"Well, why is this any different?"

I say nothing and sigh. "Go to sleep, John," Sherlock mutters, shifting away from me. "You need it."


End file.
